CAGED
by Tensai-Shoujo
Summary: One broken memory and one deathly secret. "Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage."


Okay, this is my very first fanfic. I worked on it long and hard. This story is based on an incredible dream I had in the beginning of this year. I really felt the urge to make it into what you're about to read now. I hope you like it. This story is divided into 3 parts. And there are hints of WillXGrell if you squint.

Warnings: hints of violence and abuse.  
>Disclaimer: I do not own "Kuroshitsuji". Toboso Yana does, and I worship her.<p>

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><p><strong>CAGED<strong>

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><p><em>There once was a raven who lived in a cage and a bluebird who lived in the skies.<em>

His victim loved birds. All kinds of birds. He caught them and kept them in small golden cages. The ravens and finches, sparrows and robins, Collard Doves and Wood Pigeons. He put them in cages and never let them out.

And they stared when he killed him - took the life from his eyes. Like guardians of death, they watched as he died. It was a sacred ceremony. Their master and captor, gasping for one more breath, clawing at the floor, reaching out to them as though they were the winged angels of his salvation. And they stared.

_The bluebird was always happy and the raven was always miserable._

He had been nothing, hardly a footprint in the sands of time, a dull cinematic rolling of a life spent chasing after riches and fame and nobleman's daughter. What a waste. Wanting and praying, dreaming for something that would never be his. What a complete, total waste.

A shaky smirk across his face, the young reaper raised a slender thumb to his lips and bit until he felt it bleed beneath the glove. He was the same. He was the same, wasn't he? He craved for something more, something he would never get to taste, and there was nothing he could do to change it - it was fate, it was just like the birdman's inevitable demise.

_The raven hated the bluebird. His jealousy grew day by day._

Anger filled his sickly green eyes. How stupid. Stupid! Stupid! The stupid human! He cried out in bitter rage and kicked the body across the room. It slammed against the wall with sickeningly loud crunch, the spine and ribcage shattering, and fell to the floor in a broken heap of flesh and bones and blood. The birds jumped in their little cages, shivering and rustling nervously.

Trying to catch his breath, the reaper grasped his own frail shoulders and giggled softly, a crazed but melancholic sound. Giggling, stumbling toward the birds, giggling and shaking, he reached for their locks and released them, one by one. They all hesitated, fixing their dilated eyes upon Death, unsure of whether to take the offered step into freedom. The small finches shuffled to back of their cages, seemingly shaking at the terror before them. He laughed in amusement and moved toward the window, stepping over the bloody corpse and unleashing the clasp.

Red and orange, yellow and purple – the evening sky spread out before them. As the setting sunlight cast a warm, golden mist throughout the dark room, their wings twitched unconsciously, almost simultaneously. It was pure instinct, they knew where they belonged. Out of their golden cages, out of this room, out into the open sky and beyond the vast horizon. They could not be still. In a chorus of songs and feathers, blind to the death around them, they flew out of purgatory and into freedom.

Quietly, the young reaper watched them go – wondering, hoping they would return for him, inviting him to come along. His undying heart longed to fly with them and be free from the chains that bound his immortal existence. But he stood unmoving, stuck on the cold, unforgiving floor. They didn't come back, not one. They were gone...

He hated birds.

_One day, the raven tricked the bluebird into his cage._

There was a sound of rustling feathers and a little chirp. Glancing down at the birdman's corpse, he saw the little bluebird.

It was an unusual sight. The small, winged creatures were not found in London, nor were they indigenous to any part of England. The "bluebird of happiness" - the symbol of joy and home, prosperity, good health, new births, and the renewal of spring. Somehow, somewhere, the birdman must have caught it by chance – his small happiness, his glimpse of hope.

It was jumping and pecking, pulling at its master's curly blonde hair and fluttering its tiny wings in innocent panic. It began to sing soft, choked melodies, as though sobbing for the loss of the man – the man who stole away its freedom and refused its wings to fly - the worthless human who hardly deserved the mourning of a sinless creature.

Anger. Everything seemed to turn a shade of red. He stomped on the ground and thrust a hand out the open window. "You're free! Get out! Go!" he snarled. The bluebird jumped back, but refused to take flight. It would not move, as though guarding the cold body from anymore pain. "I said you're free! You have this chance! Now GO!" The bluebird kept crying.

Stupid bird. Stupid human. Stupid. Stupid! Stupid! They had their chance at freedom. They could do whatever they pleased. Their lives were not bound by fate. They had the gift of becoming. They could be writers or poets, doctors or bishops, kings and queens. The whole world was an assortment of pleasures and opportunities placed before them on a pretty silver platter. Only in death, only in death could they not run nor could they hide.

His life. His life was run by fate. He had to become was he was expected to be. There were no opportunities or dreams of the future. He had no choice, he had no freedom. He ruled nothing in life. He wasn't even _alive_. He was Death – giving an end to all God's creatures, never to taste his own. And only in death...

_And the raven locked the cage and swallowed the key. _

Death smiled. He controlled it, the only thing he could possess. No one could take it away from him, but he had the power to give it. He giggled once more, a more crazed than melancholic sound. The bluebird continued to sing its sad little rune. He laughed a little harder. How they blended so wonderfully - beautiful and haunting, just a little bit insane. Oh, they sounded lovely together. What a shame. What a shame.

A fallen, cold bluebird was a symbol of disillusionment and the loss of innocence.

Death smiled a bit wider.

And _gave_ to the little bird...

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><p>A hard slap across the face. It was painful, it was burning, it was lovely. He was used to this, it was nothing now, and he took pleasure from it.<p>

"You mutilated a corpse! Outrageous! Do you know what this could do to your reputation! Our family's reputation!"

"I only kicked it, Mother." He smiled. Just as he expected, she had not heard about the _other_ death that evening. Besides, there were no restrictions on killing animals.

Another slap. "Get that dirty smirk off your face! Retire to your chambers at once! Your father will speak with you in the morning."

With an aggravated grunt, the woman stormed out of the room, her silky black nightgown trailing after her, leaving him alone in the shadows. Obediently, he bowed to the sound of her receding footsteps and quietly left the study. The closing of the door and the slow _tap tap_ of his shoes echoed off the walls and through the long and lonely hallway. To his left, moonlight shone through the windows, appearing sweet and much more inviting then the day.

He adored the night. It was his sanctuary. When he was a young child, his weak years, he would often fail miserably in his trainings and Mother and Father would lock him up in the Dark Room. It was an old, cold dungeon hidden in the lower realms of the manor. In the past, when the Sutcliff clan held high authority in the Shinigami Realm, the Dark Room was used as a prison to keep and torture the rule-breakers. It was a place of punishment for the incompetent.

He sometimes stayed there for days with only a little food and scarcer water. He could barely find sleep on the chilling stone floor. Because there were no windows or light, he grew very acquainted with the darkness. He came to love how the shadows wrapped cold, black wings around his body, cooing to him eerie lullabies and cradling him in darkness. It was the nurture he never had. In the embrace of shadows, no one could see him; color and expression didn't matter. He could pull off his fragile, porcelain mask and reveal his true face.

To his right, large mirrors hung on the wall. Most were straight and perfect, some were slightly slanted. Peering into one, he noticed how one side of his face matched the color of his hair – a deep crimson. It still burned from his mother's strong hand. How stunning. Smiling brighter, he continued down the hall, moving into the deeper parts of the mansion, turning down a corridor and beyond his own room. He wasn't disobeying his mother completely, he would go to it later. As of the moment, he needed to see someone...

Stopping in front of the door at the loneliest section of their residence, he knocked once, twice, and stepped into the velvet room.

"Good evening, my dearest little brother."

A small boy, appearing just over the age of nine, sat upon his silken bed, quietly playing with two of the countless dolls he had created for himself. He seemed neither happy nor shocked at the entrance of his midnight visitor, but in a way appeared ready, prepared for whatever was to come. Without moving from his spot on the bed, he replied in a sweet but shaky voice, "Welcome home."

"Were you a good boy while I was gone?" The older one moved silently towards the child and sat himself on the edge of the scarlet bed. Keeping his eyes off his elder brother, the child nodded and continued to play with his dolls, his small fingers trembling ever so slightly.

The boy was incredibly beautiful, almost breathtakingly so. Crimson red hair, cut just above his small shoulders, shown luscious and full in the soft moonlight. A lithe body of creamy white skin, appearing as silky as the sheets. His large, endearing eyes quivered with tears ready to spill, but he seemed to hold them all back by biting his lower lip. He was a slip of a boy, so weak and so fragile, so useless and broken.

The child was always alone. He had no friends. No one ever visited him. Even Mother and Father cared so little of him. In the past, the boy was like a soulless shell, a curled up ball in the corner of his lonely room, silently indulging in a tragic play or merely waiting for Mother's call to come out for supper. However, he had recently began to spend most of his surplus time doing simple crafts in his room. He liked to paint and write poetry, and lace together little string bracelets. But most of all, he loved to create dolls.

Looking throughout the room, the elder reaper noticed that the dolls had seemingly doubled in number since his last visit only a few nights before. The child had always been engrossed in creating more makeshift "friends" for himself, but never were they produced in such a short amount of time. They were spewed throughout the floor in a random, messy manner. And not only had the dolls multiplied, but many of the detailed ones, ones that the boy had spent days putting together, were torn and slashed in various places. Some were missing arms or legs while others were merely decapitated. A few even had odd gashes in the center of their bodies, as though something had been plunged deep into their abdomen.

Frowning and feeling a little disturbed, he considered the two dolls currently in his brother's tight embrace. One was not broken, not even the slightest blemish. Each yarn was stitched carefully into its head to create a lovely mane of short, scarlet hair. The body was made with the purest white fabric, adorned with little red roses and a matching floral, black lace dress. And as though proud of its own near perfect design, the doll's mouth was stitched up with a happy, black thread smile. It was a beautiful doll. For a child his young age, it was extremely well-made and handled with care.

The other... was nearly headless. The head was flopped back, cotton spilling from its neck and down the chest. One black button eye was barely hanging by a thread. There were several large slashes throughout its white body, fluff oozing out of the cuts. The left arm was torn off and left near the pillows. There was a half-used case of lipstick near the foot of the bed, most likely their mother's cosmetic, and it appeared to have been used to smear crimson stains along the torso. The doll's long, red yarn hair had been snipped in several areas, and quite recently in fact, for the fallen locks were still pooled on the boy's lap. There was a pair of sewing scissors on the bedside cupboard.

Anger. A wicked smile ran across his lips and the reaper grabbed the young boy's pretty hair and pulled him closer, pointing at the savaged doll, "Is this me? Is this supposed to be me?"

Silence. He pulled harder.

The child let out a pained gasp, "Ah! P-Please stop. It hurts."

"That's because I love you. Love is supposed to hurt," he whispered sharply into his brother's ear.

The boy whimpered softly and moved himself forward to reduce the harsh tugging on his scalp, "Is that why Mother and Father always hit you so much?" Hesitating for a moment, he situated himself in his brother's lap and gently touched his hand, wordlessly asking him to let go of his hair.

The other didn't move, wasn't even looking at him, but the pull on his scalp got tighter and tighter. Realizing quickly that he had asked the wrong question, the boy wrapped his hands around his brother's neck and nuzzled against his chest in apology, a sick feeling building in his stomach as he did so. Thankfully, the hold on his hair disappeared, but was replaced with a cold hand running down his small back. The boy shivered but remained still.

A smile again. The boy knew his place. He made sure of it. The poor child had been born into a meaningless life, one with neither fate nor choices. As his older brother, he was merely giving him some reason to his pathetic existence. He spent his days without any expectation; he wasn't even supposed to be born, he was just a mistake. He was nearly invisible to their parents. They hardly ever spoke to him or payed attention to whatever he was doing. There were times when the boy went days without speaking to his mother. He was not important. He did not have to struggle through the vigorous trainings of their family clan, he did not have to go without water or rest, he did not have the eyes of the entire society upon him - watching his every move, waiting for him to mess up...

The reaper bit his thumb again, hard. Blood seeped through the material and tainted his glove once more. He was the one carrying that burden. He was the one coughing up blood out of fatigue. He was the one who had to be the prodigy, the worthy heir to their family's reign of succession. They were watching him, everyone was watching him. He had to be perfect. He could make no mistakes. Everything he had sacrificed, the thousands of masks he had to wear. The least the worthless boy could do was provide some _entertainment_.

The boy was incredibly beautiful, irresistibly so. He never took him all the way, of course. They were siblings and good siblings never went that far... But he went far enough. He loved the way the boy would scream and try to push way, crying that it hurt and begging for him to stop. Of course, he would never stop, and the boy knew he would never stop, and he knew no one would ever come to rescue him. But the child kept fighting. Never once did he fully submit himself to the pains inflicted by his older brother, never did he lay motionless like the hundreds of broken dolls thrown around his room. When the boy struggled, it was a sensational feeling. He drew sheer pleasure from the wild thrashings of his younger brother as he pinned him to the bed. He was so weak, so fragile, yet there was something in his golden-green eyes, the way he looked at him - an undying fire within, no matter how many times he was broken, no matter how many times he left him a bloody, sobbing mass on the floor.

He loved it and he absolutely feared it.

On those nights, the air smelled musky and darkness was but a stranger. His beloved moonlight seemed to turn away in disgust, bouncing off the scarlet silks and giving the atmosphere an eerie crimson glow. Around the lonely room, hundreds of dolls stared at him with their black button eyes, like hungry vultures, they looked so real and ready to take him. And those were the nights when the child would giggle. It didn't matter how hard he was beaten or ravaged, his delicate little lips curled up in a smile and he would giggle softly to himself. And those eyes, those enormous golden-green eyes, they would stare deep into his own, searching for the slightest weakness, stabbing right through his immortal soul.

Disquietude and paranoia. There was a chill and an aura of bloody massacre. The darkness was his light, the only paradise where he felt free. But the shadows in the nightmarish room, they served the boy. They betrayed him, taunted him, shamed him. It was Hell, the child the Devil, the shadows his loyal black angels. Those were the nights when he felt dead, and being Death itself, that was the moment he felt the most _alive_.

But tonight, the small boy's eyes were innocent and fearful. It was the same expression he held on their first night – the first night of punishment. And since then he had to be punished regularly. After all, it was his fault. The boy existence – the mocking, barred window into a sky full of freedom – it was the cause of every misfortune in his life. Because of him, he was caged.

A shaky sigh escaped his lips as he continued to caress the boy's lower back. "You need to be punished."

He would break him, tear his wings, and they together...

Caged.

His younger brother shuddered violently at the words and he fought back the urge to giggle. He wrapped his arms around him, squeezing him, keeping the boy from squirming out of his grasp, nearly crushing the small body in his arms. He dipped his head down and brushed his lips against his ear. Sliding a warm and wet tongue around the edge, he whispered softly, "You're so beautiful."

The boy let out a panicked gasp, eyes widening, a surge of terror racing through his veins. With all the strength he possessed, he shoved his older brother to the other side of the crimson bed. Quickly, without a moment to spare, he scrambled to the bedside cupboard, snatching the sewing scissors in his little hands and grasping them tightly around the handles. He was prepared, there would be no moment of hesitation. He would plunge the blade into his brother's heart, neck, eye – anywhere! He was fully aware that a stab from mere scissors would do nothing against a powerful shinigami. However, it would buy him enough time to escape his brother, his room, the manor, Mother and Father – all of it.

But before he could even turn around, his arm was pinned painfully behind his back and the scissors were pulled away. A strong, one-armed embrace replaced the tight hold, and a chilling sharpness was pressed into his delicate neck. Unable to resist, a whimper escaped his trembling lips, his mind and heart racing, and tears began to spill. "I'm s-sorry," he whispered.

Smiling sweetly, the older one spun him around in his arms, bringing him face-to-face with the scissors' gleaming blade. The boy let out a choked sob, shaking his head and pleading, "Onii-chan, p-please don't..."

The reaper giggled at the helpless, pathetic look of his younger brother. Carelessly, he tossed the scissors back on the cupboard and hugged the boy closer, caressing his soft hair and nuzzling his wet cheek. "Don't worry, I won't be using that," he giggled again, "...yet."

For a moment, he saw those eyes - oh those eyes again. A cold shiver went up his spine. His dead heart raced with anticipation. How stunning, like an acidic fire, like a beautiful nightmare.

They made him giggle even more.

And with a shudder of excitement and fear, he closed the distance between them...

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><p><em>CASE #203564<em>

_To Fredrick Sirett, Chief Administrator of the Dispatch Division_

_On February 15th of the year 1461, at approximately 10:02 in the morning, Dispatch Officer Theodore Sutcliff was found dead near the White Cliffs of Dover. Dispatch Officer Daniel Turner, who was completing an assignment near the cliffs, was the first to discover the body. _

_The victim sustained several large gashes, including a critical puncture through the chest, and was covered in his own blood. There were some signs of struggle. Testings have concluded that the wounds were made by the blade of a Death Scythe. Sutcliff's own scythe, which was also dripping with blood, is the likely murder weapon. According to Daniel Turner, there was a faint, lingering presence of a demon in the area. _

_On February 14th, the night of his death, Theodore Sutcliff was assigned to collect three souls in the county of Kent. He left the headquarters and entered into the Mortal Realm at approximately 15:30 and was required to return within the next two hours. His fellow coworkers saw no signs of physical or mental distress. Based on his injuries, his death may have occurred during 19:00 and 19:30 before sunset. It is still unknown as to what he may have been doing between the time of his leave and the estimated time of his death. He also failed to collect his assigned souls according to schedule. _

_There is enough evidence to conclude that Theodore Sutcliff committed suicide, however, the small signs of struggle and the demon presence are being taken into account. Sutcliff's Cinematic Record, which was found severely torn and scattered at the scene, will be of no use in this case. While the remaining fragments are either broken or completely irrelevant, there are many pieces still missing. Dispatch Officers Osbert Hills and Edmund Winney are currently assigned to the recovery of these lost fragments._

_At this point, Ansel Sutcliff and his wife have refused to answer any questions concerning the death of their son. They have requested a few weeks of "healing and planning for the future of the family". Theodore Sutcliff's younger brother, Grell Sutcliff, will be enrolling in the Academy this winter._

_Investigations will continue persistently until the middle of March, if possible. Dispatch officers are numbered and all will be needed in the following "Battle of Towton" assignment on March 26th. Sutcliff's case may have to be postponed to a further date. _

_Charles Stannard, Shinigami Dispatch Association - Dispatch Division Supervisor _

_February 26, 1461 _

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><p>'Complete'.<p>

William T. Spears pressed the usual red stamp on the last sheet of godforsaken paper and placed it atop the neat mountain of work he had climbed throughout the day. He moved out from behind his desk, letting out a heavy sigh, both out of exhaustion and relief. As the clock ticked away the final minutes of the evening, he noticed the shy entrance of dull, orange light through the large window.

The week he had spent at the same desk, viewing the same sunset, and working hours of overtime, all due to the careless mishap of a certain blonde dispatch officer. The fool had carelessly forgotten to collect a woman's soul the previous week, running out early to attend a party or somewhat. A series of misinterpretations followed and the abandoned soul was thought to have been taken. But when the weekly count was made...

Even the very memory created a familiar wrinkle on William's forehead.

It was not that the young shinigami had a habit of failures. In fact, as much as William refused to admit, he was one of the more capable officers. Though there was much to be improved upon his attitude towards work, the boy did often complete it in a timely and orderly manner.

"Spears-senpaaaai!"

An energetic voice intruded William's ears as said source of the week's trouble all but burst through the door.

"Ronald Knox, back from duty, sir! Did you miss me?"

"Not even the slightest. Have you finished your paperwork?"

"Aww, you're no fun." The young shinigami grinned and pulled out a black file from behind his back, flipping it around in his hands before slapping it down on the desk. "But I bet this'll cheer you up."

William stared at the file. "...Ronald Knox. That was due three days ago."

"No worries, senpai. I spent like thirty minutes on it! Trust me, it's soo~ good. It's like the best written apology I've ever done."

"I highly doubt you are capable of producing anything close to 'good'. Nevertheless, it's still late."

"Oka~y..." Ronald grinned, "Then would you like me to write a written apology for my written apology?"

William's eyebrow twitched. He didn't have time for this. "No, this will be fine."

Ronald tried to suppress an amused laugh as he whirled around the desk and plopped himself comfortably in his superior's chair. "Ugh~ I'm pooped! It took me forever to find all the pieces of that chick's Cinematic Record."

"If you had collected her soul according to schedule, we both would have had a better week."

Ronald bit his lip. There was no lie in that. The client he had been scheduled to reap was a young woman in love. She was a lady, her lover a commoner. Four years had passed before their forbidden affair was uncovered. The man was arrested for laying hands on an aristocrat's daughter, but he was promised a speedy release if he payed a greedy fine. The woman secretly helped him pay it off. But no sooner had he tasted of freedom, he was mysteriously shot to death at a local bar. His young lover went mad with despair and committed suicide. She jumped off the White Cliffs of Dover and into the jagged sea rocks below. If Ronald had collected her soul according to schedule, her Cinematic Record never would have teared, it never would have severed into hundreds of pieces, and it never would have scattered along the cliffs. But since he made the slip-up, Ronald had to spend hours searching for every goddamn piece.

And speaking of "piece"...

Leaning back in the chair, Ronald announced casually, "By the way, I found something interesting during my assignment."

William adjusted his glasses, "And just what is it that you found?"

"This."

On the desk, Ronald placed what appeared to be the shimmering, transparent fragment of a Cinematic Record. Though it was severely torn in some areas, it seemed to have a life of it's own, writhing and squirming around like the body of a headless serpent. Furrowing his brow, William peered in for a closer look, "This is one of the scattered pieces of Sarah Thatcher's Cinematic Record, is it not?"

"No-no-no. I told you, I already found all her pieces." Ronald shook his head, "This fragment contains the final memories of someone else. I saw it stuck between some sea rocks while I was looking for Miss Sarah's." Poking the wiggling film on one end, Ronald watched as it slowly formed a defensive curl like an armadillo. "Just look and see for yourself."

William T. Spears did not have a habit of wasting time. The clock was ticking a few minutes passed the hour. He should already be out of the door at this time. However, he could not deny the fact that he was quite interested in the contents of the transparent object. Whatever it was, there was the possibility of it being something of great importance, a forgotten memory or a part of lost history. Those types of cases were uncommon, but still existed. If he neglected the mysterious fragment now, it could lead to more piles of paperwork and written apologies in the future. It could very much lead to overtime.

Without another moment's hesitation, William summoned his death scythe and penetrated the center of the fragment. And as though it could feel pain, it began to flail and thrash harder than before, resembling a dying little fish. The more it thrashed, a brilliant light - the light a shinigami would grow acquainted with throughout centuries of reaping souls - radiated from the piece and flew across the office. The evening sunlight was pushed back out the window and was replaced with a shimmering white glow. And as the fragment slowed in movement, an image began to form directly above...

_White cliffs. An evening sky. A vast crystal ocean, tainted orange by the setting sun. Another land in the distance. Wildflowers and Samphire. Red, green, violet, pink, and yellow. A gentle wind was blowing through the trees. Birds were singing, soaring through the air and back to their nests. _

_And in the midst of all the beauty, he lay flat on his back, laughing and crying in a small patch of white blooming blossoms. With both hands, he would seize the flowers around him, tossing them in the air and watching as the wind took them away. Occasionally, stray petals fell on his face and he sighed, appearing content and deprived, happy and full of sorrow. He sat up, gently brushing the snowy flowers from his body, and looked out over the cliffs - beyond the ocean and past the horizon. The torn petals rode the breeze towards the setting sun, and they were calling to him, inviting him to come along. _

_He arose to his feet and slowly moved forward, carelessly stepping on the dancing wildflowers in his path. He paused at the edge of the white cliffs and outstretched his arms, taking in a deep breath and feeling the wind through his crimson hair, fresh air in his lungs. He almost felt like a bird. He almost felt like he was flying over the orange sea, up into the clouds and toward the setting sun. Never, he had never felt so alive. He almost felt free._

_Taking off his precious glasses, he tossed them high in the air and laughed like an innocent, playful child. He listened carefully for the faint 'badump' to sound behind him – those precious, dreadful glasses to fall on the grass – the first heartbeat of a new and better life. With the sounding of that makeshift bugle, he would no longer be bound by duty and fate. He could do what suited his pleasure, be whatever he wanted to be. A shiver ran up his spine and his hands trembled with excitement. He had never felt so close! So close to-_

_A sound of rustling bushes. An angry sea breeze. The weak were torn from their patches and left helpless in the air. Trees swayed, branches broke. Birds cried. Someone giggled._

_White flowers... Red flowers... _

There was a light snapping sound and the images began to fade. The young man, the birds, the white cliffs, the setting sun disappeared within the receding light and was replaced with the original view of William's brown desk.

Surprised and slightly annoyed at the lack of information the Cinematic fragment had shown, William proceeded to stab the piece once more. Nothing happened. He stabbed again. The clear object refused to play. Ronald merely shrugged, "Ahh~ah. Looks like you broke it, senpai."

William let out a frustrated sigh and adjusted his glasses, "Ronald Knox, do you have any idea what this is?"

"Sure I do. It's Case #203564, right?" Ronald replied, "That's why I wanted you to see it. It might have been a valuable clue to the forgotten mystery... a~nd you broke it."

"You knew about Case #203564?" William asked, trying to ignore the last part of Ronald's smirk-filled sentence.

The blonde jumped up from the chair and whirled around the desk towards his superior, "Some guy was talking about it at a party. I wasn't all that interested at first, but then he mentioned 'Sutcliff'. Man, who would've known? Sutcliff-senpai has a dead brother and they never found out who killed him. It's a cold case now." Ronald gently took the Cinematic fragment from the desk. "These were probably his last memories, huh? ...Then he went and got himself killed by a demon or something."

William shook his head, "There is evidence to prove that he deliberately took his own life."

"Suicide? Are you serious? I thought only humans did that!" With almost an immediate change in attitude, Ronald scrunched his nose and stared at the silvery piece like it was a vile cockroach. They were reapers – Death incarnate. Their gift was only bestowed upon mortals and lowly, soul-eating pests. They were never meant to taste the end themselves, and that was what made them superior to all God's creatures. But to willfully take away one's own immortal life - to drop themselves down to the same level as the sinful, fallen man - it was the greatest insult to the shinigami name.

Ronald all but tossed the fragment like trash back onto William's desk. Checking his wristwatch, he began to speed-walk for the exit, "Well, I'll let you keep that then. I've got a blind-date party in about 15 minutes." Opening the door, he said with a wave and a wink, "See you tomorrow, Spears-senpai."

With that, the door all but slammed shut and the hurried footsteps shuffled down the hall. They quickly turned a corner, receding from sound, leaving William alone in his office once more.

Or so, not as alone as he would like to have been.

There was still a lingering presence outside the room, an all too familiar presence that caused yet another growing ache to William's poor head. Collecting his remaining possessions, along with the broken fragment, once more, William turned to the door and called out, "What is it that you want, Grell Sutcliff?"

After a few moments of complete stillness and silence, the door slowly creaked open and the red-haired reaper peered into the room with a dramatic pout on his face, "Will~, how did you know I was here~? Ronald didn't notice me. Well, maybe because he was in such a hurry... He almost hit my face with the door! That snobby little-"

"Did your parents ever teach you not to eavesdrop on a private conversation?" William cut in, rubbing his temple and letting out yet another mighty sigh. Right now, he was supposed to be home, done with his shower and reading a book.

"But my parents were so horrible~!" Grell cried, stepping into the office and shutting the door behind him, "I was deprived of a loving mother and father." Smiling his usual sharp smile, he latched himself to William's occupied arm and leaned against his shoulder. "That's why I want a happy family of my own, Will. And a husband who will love me more than anything~."

Tempted to roll his eyes, William merely shrugged the crimson pest off his arm and proceeded for the door. Grell whined and followed after him, tugging his reluctant partner back towards the center of the room. "Wait, wait! I have a favor to ask of you." Pointing at the silver frame in William's hands, he asked with rare sincerity in his voice, "Can I have that Cinematic fragment?"

"The piece is most likely broken, and I will let the General Affairs Division take care of it." William replied.

"Please, Will. This memory provides more evidence for his possible suicide. You saw how Ronald reacted. The entire society will look at Theo the same way." His voiced cracked so slightly and tears began to fill his golden-green eyes, "I don't want that to happen... Please." And with a finale of overly dramatic sniffs and trembling lips, Grell let the ready tears fall down his rosy cheeks.

William sighed. Tears were not his specialty, even if they were obviously fake and coming from _Grell Sutcliff_ of all things. As much as he hated to admit, the useless dispatch officer did quite well in resembling a woman at times. And the sight of a crying woman revived a hidden, light trauma beneath William's cold demeanor. He was never good with tears and the opposite sex, and with the two put together, William T. Spears had not a clue what to do. Several decades ago, he had unemotionally, with much too honest and straight-forward words, refused the shy affections of a lady, causing her to burst into tears and slap him hard across the face. It confused him to no end. He had thought that only mortals shed tears. As a shinigami, one should not feel sorrow or pain and loss. They were not held by the temporal bonds of "love". They were harbingers of death, leading eternal lives of indifference and apathy and efficiency. They had no need for tears.

Then yet, why were they still capable of shedding them..?

His headache grew worse.

With a light flick of his left wrist, he tossed the fragment into Grell's awaiting hands. "As it is seemingly broken, it will probably be of no use to the case anyway." From his pocket, he retrieved a dark blue handkerchief and gently wiped the wet tears away.

With a shy blush and a beam of delight, Grell exclaimed, "Thank you, Will~!" He took the handkerchief from William and carefully tucked it into his brown vest pocket, "I'll wash this and give it back to you tomorrow!" William acknowledged his service with a light nod of the head. By now he was exhausted. Thanks to Ronald Knox and Grell Sutcliff's sudden intrusions, his intended early leave was now an hour overdue. The sun had already set beyond the horizon and the dull orange light of evening was gone and replaced with the black cold of night.

Slowly, Grell turned to face the moonlit window. He stretched forth his right arm, letting the silvery piece in his hand glisten like the stars in the black sky. Unsure of what the red-haired reaper was doing, but too tired to care, William headed for the door once more. But Grell called him back, "_There once was a raven who lived in a cage and a bluebird who lived in the skies. _Ne~, Will? Do you know this story?"

"_The bluebird was always happy and the raven was always miserable._"

Turning from the window, Grell grinned, "_The raven hated the bluebird. His jealousy grew day by day. One day, the raven tricked the bluebird into his cage. And the raven locked the cage and swallowed the key._ I didn't think you'd know it, Will."

"And what of it?" William asked slightly annoyed, his hand already around the knob.

Grell let out a childish giggle, "_But in the dead of midnight, the bluebird split the raven and took the key. _Such a violent little fairytale, don't you think?"

"Most of them are," William replied. "Hansel and Gretel", "Little Red Riding Hood", "The Wolf and the Seven Young Kids" – the humans often adorned such meaningless fables with high praises and fame, sharing them as bedtime stories to their innocent children.

"But don't you think it's strange," Grell said, slowly wrapping his arms around William's neck, "The raven had the key to his own cage all along. He could have freed himself if he wanted to."

William swiftly turned at a 90 degree angle, tearing the loose hold from around his neck and knocking Grell off balance. "It is merely a fairytale, created out of whim and without thought."

Laughing rather sweetly, Grell straightened his vest and poked William in the ribs, "I guess you're right." He glanced at the clock then back towards the window, "It's getting late. We should probably go home, Will." The dark-haired reaper shot him a glare that obviously said "that's what I've been trying to do for the past hour". Finally acknowledging William's frustrated aura, Grell courteously opened the door for his past partner. Outside the office, only a few reapers remained in their cubicles. The bustling sound of hurried footsteps and lively chatter were gone and replaced with the occasional tapping of someone's typewriter. For the past week, William had left the Association at an even later time when barely a worker could be seen. Although tonight he was leaving rather early for a change, he had hoped to get out before sundown...

...before the darkness set in.

"...You know," Grell suddenly whispered, "They say an abused child will also become abusive when they mature... Do you think those pathetic humans will brand me with some mental disorder, claiming that everything I do is a direct result of my past?" Grell was staring at the Cinematic fragment in his hand, barely blinking, with a wide, sharp smile plastered across his face. The moonlight disappeared from the room, hiding behind a black cloud, and the shadows tauntingly crawled along the window curtains. The air felt thick and heavy with darkness.

"What are you talking about?" William scowled, raising a furrowed brow and adjusting his glasses. Strangely, for a small moment, he felt uncomfortable and exposed to the night. The lighter hallway beyond the threshold appeared much... _safer_ than his office with the scarlet reaper.

But soon the dark cloud released the moon from its grasp and the soft, creamy light entered the office again. And as though on cue, Grell's expression grew soft, the usual lively spark returning to his eyes once more, and he giggled playfully, "Nothing, Will~!" He began to push the taller reaper out the door, "Now hurry and go home! You need the rest! I'll be sure to lock the door to your office, so you don't need to worry about that~!"

"And j-just when did you get the key-uh to my office?" William stammered, the strong force on his back causing a hitch in his words.

"Oh I have much more than just your office key, William~."

"What? Were you the once who stole my spare dress-shirt, Grell Sutcliff?"

The redhead revealed his Cheshire grin, "And your pen and your coffee mug."

"Give them back," William demanded with a threatening tone.

Grell merely laughed and attached himself to William's arm once more, "You'll need to have me first~. Then you can have them." He swiftly dodged a near kick in the leg and jumped back towards the moonlit office. "I'll see you tomorrow~," Grell purred, and William flinched as he was blown a kiss 'goodnight'.

The usual, flirtatious scene between the flamboyant reaper and the stoic supervisor was becoming somewhat of a daily ritual within the building, and none of the few officers in the hallway took any notice. They continued about their business, typing and signing and carrying stacks of papers to and fro. For William, the run-ins with Grell Sutcliff were more burdens than mere daily occurrences, but he couldn't help but feel a strange sense of relief from hearing Grell's promise of another "burden" tomorrow. Adjusting his glasses, William replied softly, "Goodnight."

Closing his eyes, Grell listened to the sound of William's receding footsteps. Each tap was a beautiful ring to his ears, and he could hardly wait to hear them return on the morrow - hoping that one day, those lonely steps home would be accompanied by another. The footsteps soon vanished from sound, and Grell quietly moved back into William's dark office and shut the door. From the tall window, the moon shone high in the blackened sky and tree leaves rustled in the wind. Once more, Grell raised his hand up and let the Cinematic fragment shimmer in the creamy light. As though recalling fond memories of a happy past, he watched it lovingly, a gentle smile on his lips.

And against the pretty moonlight, the broken fragment burst into crimson flames.

Death smiled a bit wider.

He was an _actress_ after all...

For years he played the tragedy of a worthless child, the weak link, the pebble in a shoe. Years he spent in solitude, tears and anger, pain and despair; waiting for a glimpse of light, waiting for some sign of love... waiting for a chance at vengeance.

Only after the little "misfortune" did Mother actually look at him, did Father finally speak to him. With their precious diamond gone, they had no choice but to polish the "mistake" in order to preserve the honorable family name. They did not expect much from him. After all, he was inferior to the genius of the eldest brother. However, since childhood, he had somehow always known that he was much stronger than dear, pathetic Theo. And what had took his brother nearly months to master, he achieved in mere days. Theo _had_ to be a prodigy. He _was_ a prodigy. Despite the harshness of their trainings, the rapid and confident charge at which he progressed caused Mother and Father to revel in shock, then boasting pride...

...then utter fear.

With each passing moon, the little mistake became an unstoppable force. Not even their strengths combined could suppress the hidden potential within their youngest child. They were weak – they were all weak. And with every opponent he left crippled and bleeding on the ground, he laughed a bit harder. He left Mother and Father and never returned to them again. And never once did they come to him, for fear of their own pitiful, eternally damned lives. He left them, the manor, his hellish memories and tormented past – he abandoned them all and never looked back.

Upon entering the Academy, he began the new canvas of a life _he_ would paint. He adorned himself with all manners of beauty fit for a being of his majesty. He gave himself everything he had always deserved. No one would ever, could ever tell him what to do or how to be. They were pitiful and weak, every single one, and he despised them all. It annoyed him to no end, seeing them parading around with their breakable confidence and toothpick strength. Despite being the pathetic, groveling worms that they were, they pretended to have power and authority – like Mother and Father, and just like Theo... The very memory of his older brother caused his anger to spill, and he made sure others payed for making him recall. Giving "punishment" was an exotic feel of pleasure and release. His very own past was a blueprint for pain, and he knew exactly what to do to make people scream. Soon, every head, even the professors, turned to stare in fear and awe. All stood clear of his red carpet to dominance...

Until everything changed, that snowy December day.

No one had ever dared to defy him before. But William T. Spears, a mere Rank B student, did not pretend like all the others. He was powerful, truly powerful. From the day of their exam, the fiery reign of Grell Sutcliff had crumbled. He no longer had to play the raging goddess of war. Finally, after years of unconsciously searching, he found his match – in more ways than one. Finally, someone was worthy enough, strong enough to hold him tight, brush back his hair and wipe away his tears with a kiss of soft words, "It's all right. I'll protect you now."

Grell blushed madly at the thought. As he brought his hands to his burning cheeks, the silver ashes of the Cinematic fragment fell quietly to the floor. They blended with the carpet and vanished from the naked eye. Grell merely shrugged to himself, not too worried. At the end of each day, the entire building was cleaned from wall to wall. No one would ever know. No one would ever find out. The ashes would be lost forever, along with the final memories of Theodore Sutcliff.

_There once was a raven who lived in a cage..._

All along, he held the key to his own cage. But he never flew out. He was scared. He was too weak, pathetically weak. There was always a choice and freedom was only a flutter away. Yet he chose to stay, always miserable, making excuses and pitying himself, and blaming others for his hapless sufferings. He was forever in his own little cage. Eventually, jealousy emerged and grew, and the little "bluebird of happiness" only fueled him further to anger. Dreams of taking him - oh the sight of them together, pain and sorrow, embraced in darkness, forever bleeding, forever caged...

But of course, the villain never won. The hero would triumph, the princess saved. The world would return to order, the evil forgotten, and life would only continue. After all, it was only natural for tales to have a "happy ending".

Grell smiled, "_In the dead of midnight_..._split the raven and took the key_."

He left the room, the moonlight, the ashes, the darkness, and locked the door on it all.

_And the little bluebird flew free._

* * *

><p><strong>THE END<strong>

* * *

><p>I'll let you decide what happened to Theo. Was it demons, suicide, or his sweet little brother? That's how my dream ended. I woke up before I knew what killed him. ^^; Btw, raise your hand if you thought the reaper in the beginning of the story was Grell, not Theo! XD<p>

Reviews would be much appreciated! Flames, not so much. I have a heart of glass, you know~. Heheh.


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